The Lover’s Hope by Salbri Powel

I’m but an ailing poet,
I cannot keep it secret:
My voice grows faint for her fair face
Who’s gone chase flibbertigibbet.

And now, no lad’s so simple
Or lusty cheery damsel
But’s glad enough to joke and pick
And hand me a stick of hazel.

In Gwaun y Plu I’ll gather
And plant each stick together;
If you can trust an old wive’s tale
The twigs can’t fail to prosper.

And when the nuts shall ripen
And the birds sing their burden,
Fairer than fair she’ll come therein
Like a linnet in my garden.

And there, there’ll be no coupling
Of art in my new dwelling –
Only the birdsong, sweet on the bud,
And gentle greenwood growing.

And there I’ll be desiring
A bed, in shelter hiding,
To have, O lovely form, with her
A skilful, tender loving.

by Saldri Powel
(16th century)

The Lake Isle Of Innisfree by W. B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

 

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

 

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

 

by W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)